Why can’t they just get married?

She holds fast onto him, giving him a little leg and hip crush, but nothing pelvic. Not the kind of pelvic crush she has in mind before the trip is over, given as part of her package, part of giving him the business end: one where she will walk into his arms and grind into him, breasts and Mount Venus and all, all in one big squinch.
Get him up, hard, fast.
Make some lead pipe again.
Maybe what he’d have loved while they slow fox trotted, a big pelvic crush rather than a ladylike, delayed backing off, with her spine curving.
But that depends on how everything goes, over the next few days, in this game being played between one man and one woman. A game she has thus far not particularly excelled in, nor greatly enjoyed. Why can’t it be that they just get married—without all this? Be nice, be really nice say they could. But it can’t… And even she knows that.

Virtues of getting pregnant

She feels not the least lessened, not the tiniest teensiest diminished. Not dishonored—nor dishonorable. Not at all, not any of that, kiddo.
Why in hell’s name for? Why should she?
She is, in fact, proud to have accomplished what she has accomplished.
Proud, proud, triumphant and proud! Who among women would not envy her what she has pulled off? Her triumph?
All that a woman has in the war with brutish, sex-driven men is what she has. Sex...
What else has a poor girl got?
Mrs Wallis Warfield Simpson, so the rumor goes, learned almost mystical ways of Chinese sex torture at the hands and sides of an ancient Chinese Madame.
These mystical Chinese sex tortures she practiced on the Prince of Wales so well that ever after he never wavered in his devotion to her, even giving up the Throne and Crown of England to be with her—and her alone.
Hell, since the Garden of Eden, in a line that stretched through Cleopatra of Egypt all the way to Mae West herself, all that a woman had, really and truly had, was what every woman had: the only thing men desired of them, madly, deeply and completely. If briefly...
Crazy not to use it. Crazy...

(2) And she…

She lets him fool around with her in the half-light, she even grabs her ankles for him for him to see everything, every rounded curve, every crack, cranny and angle of her neatly shaven patch.
She has come so far, even so far as this.
He, apparently, is fixated on her—from behind.
She picked this up at the Newport Casino, and her sister too noticed his tennis shorts bulging away.
So she has to keep herself from toppling over into buckets of fresh paint.
But she will hold the thin line between her genitalia and her anus.
She will not allow that thin strip of smooth skin between to be crossed.
And this kind of thing won’t last forever.
God, will it all be so easy? All she has to do, to get away from all of this, is snag and land, him, finally?
Is that all? Snag, land…then go live in peace at his place.

(1) He…

They wait for Japanese Airlines in a darkened, empty airport coffee shop which is being redone. Ladders, buckets of paint, canvas on the floor and empty tables.
He fools around in the half-light with her in her loose, wide skirt, making her grab her ankles, showing her all the ways.
He piles her skirt over her back, pulls down her panties, and takes a little time to survey all the sensational bun she ever promised when she bent over—all the bun promised all that time ago back at the tennis.
In the half-light, his eyes fill to overflowing with firm round stirring curving sensational, wonder buns and pussy.
Hardening him into steel rod.
He makes his insertion into a slick, gauzy crack in the half-light. He keeps themselves from falling on fresh paint, and the smell of fresh paint is everywhere. They are having all the fun of their lives in Lima. God, why can’t they just keep repeating the last three days, forever.

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